


Not Quite Sleeping, Fast in Bed

by tocourtdisaster



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-27
Updated: 2011-08-27
Packaged: 2017-10-23 03:29:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/245800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tocourtdisaster/pseuds/tocourtdisaster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock invades John’s bed and a serious discussion is had.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Quite Sleeping, Fast in Bed

**Author's Note:**

> So, I apparently can’t write anything but microfic for this show and I don’t know why and that bothers me just a bit. :/ Anyway, the title is adapted from a line in “The Predatory Wasp of the Palisades is Out to Get Us!” by Sufjan Stevens.

John’s half asleep, flat on his back in bed, when Sherlock lets himself into his bedroom and burrows his way under the duvet and curls into John’s side, all without so much as a ‘by your leave.’ It takes John an inordinately long time to try to muster up an appropriate response to having his flatmate in his bed, but he can’t think of one, so he settles on asking though a yawn, “All right, then?”

He realizes it’s an inadequate and rather simple question and John doesn’t even need to see Sherlock’s face to know he’s looking at him like he’s unbearably dim. “Sorry, stupid question,” he mumbles. “What’s wrong, then?”

Sherlock doesn’t answer and after a while John starts to drift off again, soothed by the sound of Sherlock’s even breathing and the extra warmth against his side. Minutes or hours later, John’s not sure which, he feels Sherlock’s hand on his chest and everything finally starts making sense to his sleep deprived brain.

“Ah,” he breathes as Sherlock picks at the edges of the gauze. It’s quite ticklish, but John doesn’t stop him, merely tries to breathe through it.

“How many?” Sherlock asks so quietly that John almost doesn’t hear, but John doesn’t need to ask what he means.

“Nineteen.”

Sherlock is silent for so long that John could almost believe he’d fallen asleep if not for the fact that he was still picking at the bandage covering more of John’s chest than he would have liked.

“It was just a graze,” John says quietly. “It’s all stitched up now and I’m fine. I’ll _be_ fine. Nothing to worry about.”

“Nothing except your distressing and completely unnecessary habit of throwing yourself at armed criminals,” Sherlock snaps and there’s another piece of the puzzle falling into place.

“It was either watch you get stabbed full-on in the chest or knock him down and risk the knife glancing across my ribs,” John says calmly. He lays his hand over Sherlock’s on his chest, wanting to still the almost frantic worrying at the edges of the tape. Sherlock’s fingers twitch once, twice, and then still. “I’m not sorry for doing it.”

“You’re no good to me as a blogger and sometimes adequate assistant if you get yourself killed,” Sherlock says and then shifts closer, his head a warm weight against John’s shoulder. “You’re not to do anything so stupid in the future.”

“Not allowed to save your life?” It’s phrased like a question even though they both know that’s exactly what Sherlock is saying. “Right. No, sorry, not going to happen. Maybe if you didn’t end up in life threatening situations so often, I wouldn’t have to save it.”

“I have never asked you to--”

“You never needed to,” John interrupts. “You _don’t_ need to. Jesus, Sherlock, that’s not what this is about.”

“Then what is it about?” Sherlock asks.

John thinks about killing a man for Sherlock, about loyalty, about sacrificing his other relationships, about his willingness to do it all over again if given the chance. He thinks about how he should have run after that first meeting, about how he should probably be running now, about how this should be uncomfortable but isn’t. He thinks about how he could possible say all this to Sherlock without insulting him or scaring him off.

“Friendship,” he finally answers. “You’re my friend and if I can keep you from being hurt, then I will.”

“Selfish,” Sherlock says, his hand curling into a fist on John’s chest.

“How so?” John asks. He moves his hand to Sherlock’s wrist, rubs his fingers gently back and forth across his pulse point, trying to will him to calm down.

“Do you think I enjoy seeing you injured?”

“I’m sorry I scared you,” he says. He continues rubbing at Sherlock’s wrist until his hand relaxes, his fingers flat against John’s chest.

Silence falls between them and after a moment, Sherlock withdraws his hand and rolls away from John’s side and it’s visceral how much John misses the sensation of Sherlock next to him.

“You can stay if you’d like,” he says without thinking and he’s bracing himself for some cutting remark when Sherlock surprises him by rolling into his side again, shifting up in the bed to share John’s pillow. His hand is a gentle pressure on John’s chest.

John falls asleep with Sherlock’s breath warm against his cheek.  



End file.
